Page 117 of If Not for My Baby
“I dunno what’s wrong with you,” Francis jokes. “I grew sick of ’em ages ago.”
“I don’t get to sing back home,” I tell them. “I’m just a waitress there. And that was tough. Returning, I mean.” I think about how it felt to be back in my apron and sneakers. To find they fit differently than they had before I’d left. “My town felt smaller than it ever had. Suddenly I wondered if I was going to die there, you know? But the worst part was how much I missed Tom. I missed him so, so much.” It’s up there with the bravest things I’ve ever said. When I allow myself to glance up at him, there’s a cautious hope in his eyes. If I’m the outlaw and Tom’s the sheriff, he’s debating hanging up his holster. But he’s got me, and it’s about time he knew it.
Mia and Francis look at each other the way couples do when they see another pair learning something they’ve known for years.
When Tom and I stand to gather the empty plates, Liam begins to fuss.
“Time to put this one to bed,” Mia says.
“I made up the guest room for all three of ye,” Tom tells her, piling serve ware into the sink.
“Thanks, Tommy. Love, it’s my turn,” Francis offers. “Let me put him down.”
“I don’t mind. It won’t be long, he’s tuckered himself right out.”
Mia presses a kiss into Liam’s brow and I don’t miss the way Francis stares in admiration at his own family. How Mia smiles at him before nodding down to Liam. A silent ask of,Can you believe we made this little thing?There’s something between them my heart aches for profoundly, and I’d never even known it until now.
“He’s outrageously cute,” Tom says. “And clearly’ll be smart, too. Lucky you married her, otherwise he’d have your shite for brains.”
Francis’s laugh is a husky guffaw as he leans against the kitchen counter. “I’m not arguin’ with you. I’m lucky I married her for more than just that. She’s all too good with him.” Francis releases a full-bellied sigh. “We’re in dreadful need of a holiday, though. Maybe end of the month.”
“Where will you go?” I ask.
Francis tips his head, weighing the options. “Somewhere by the seaside. Maybe Dingle or Kinsale.” He turns to Tom. “Didn’t you and Eden spend a week down there? At her mam’s aul’ place for summer holiday?”
There’s nothing significant about the question. Had Ibeen focused on transferring kale into Tupperware, I might’ve even missed the guttered expression that shadows over Tom’s face. But once I’ve seen it, it’s too late.
Francis tries gamely to plow onward. “Hot as a devil in August but we’re hopin’ it’s almost cooled off.”
They talk about the weather but it all sounds like stiff commercial dialogue. Forced and phony—Tom knows I’ve heard something I shouldn’t have. Something he wasn’t ready to share with me. Doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t really hear anything over the thundering of my heart.
“I’m just going to take the trash out,” I say primly. “Thank you for such a beautiful dinner.”
“Clem—”
But I’m hurrying for the front door with no trash whatsoever before Tom can catch me.
Thirty-Eight
Francis mutters something about puttinghis foot in it but I don’t catch a response from Tom, and I know it’s because he’s following me outside. My hands are trembling on the front door and when I finally wrench it open I realize it’s pouring. Goddamn Ireland.
Whatever has given me the confidence that I can outmaneuver Tom on his own craggy grounds in his native country’s brutal weather, I double down on. I tramp through tufts of primrose and winding weeds. Around boulders and fresh puddles that douse my ankles in mud until I hear the deep timbre of his voice calling out my name like Heathcliff on the moors. Conry’s barking like a lunatic after us and thunder clashes above and I’m soaked through my jeans and really didn’t want to cry but it’s too damn late.
“Hey.” He’s breathless when he catches up and takes my chin in his hand. I twist my face from him to hide my tears. “No more of that. It’s pitch-black out here and lashin’.”
The porch lights click on and reflect the eyes of a creature in the weeds. It scuttles off into the dense bushes.
“We can talk inside,” he manages. “Where it’s dry.”
For a moment I just stare at him. Kerry’s nightfall has a thickness to it, heady and floral and wet. I inhale nothing but damp heather and blow it out on a shuddering breath. “Is this what being in love does to people?”
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“I feel like I’m going insane.”
“You and me both.” His laugh is rough. “These last few weeks without you…I about needed a mercy killing.”
His hand is still wrapped around my chin and his thumb sweeps softly over my soaked skin. I want to close the gap. Press up on my toes and seal my mouth to his. All our kisses are sliding too far back in my memory. I’m scared this moment could be the beginning of forgetting him.
